And we are glad to lay the blame on any rather than ourselves; and lastly—for small misfortunes are harder to bear than great ones—we are impatient under the minor annoyances, inevitable in consequence:—Marmion had not so much exhausted his love for Constance as that he was
"Weary to hear the desperate maid
Threaten by turn, beseech, upbraid."
Years of misery and mortification had done their work: right and wrong were confounded together in the first instance. Constance could neither look forward nor back; she was forced to exist intensely in the present; and that is one of the worst punishments that guilt can know. Our youth is gone from us with all its kindlinesses, its innocent fond ness, and its graceful amusements; memory can only
"lead us back
In mournful mockery o'er the shining track
Of our young life, and point out every ray
Of hope and truth we've lost upon the way."
Our future is obscure and threatening; the eyes involuntarily turn away—they can see nothing but the phantom—more terrible for its indistinctness—of slow, but certain retribution. Remorse, unattended by repentance, always works for evil—it adds bitterness and anger to error.
Such are the dark materials out of which the character of Constance is formed; we can trace its degradation step by step—we see how the timid has grown hardened—the resolute reckless—and the affectionate only passionate. Constant contact with coarser natures has seared the finer perceptions, and the sense of right and wrong is deadened by hardship, suffering, and evil communion. The character so formed has now to be worked upon by the most fearful passion which can agitate the human heart—that which is strong as death and cruel as the grave—the passion of jealousy. The name of jealousy is often taken in vain—Henry VIII. is called jealous when he was only tyrannical;—the mere desire of influence, envy, and irritability of temper, are often veiled under the name of jealousy; and many a husband and wife talk of "being jealous," while in reality profoundly indifferent to each other, and only desiring a decent excuse for anger: it is oftener envy than any other feeling. But the passion of jealousy cannot exist without the passion of love, and is like its parent, creative, impetuous, and credulous. Earth holds no misery so great as that of doubting the affection, which is dearer than life itself—and perhaps it takes its worst shape to a woman. Her attachment is to her more than it ever can be to a man. It enters into her ordinary course of existence—it belongs to the small sweet cares of every day—while it is not less the great aim and end of her being. With her, but "once to doubt" is not "once to be resolved," but to plunge into a chaos of small distracting fears. How much more must this be the case when the affection has been one of sacrifice and of dishonour! Constance must have watched for weary hours the slightest sign of change—she must have feared before she felt—expected long before it came—yet scarce believed when it did come. At length the fatal hour arrives; she knows that she is "betrayed and scorned." In the fearful solitude of Lindisfarne, how bitterly must she have num-
